


Angels Will Run and Hide Their Wings

by whimsicalmuse



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-20
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:46:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7729114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalmuse/pseuds/whimsicalmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late 1600s France. Billy in tights. Any questions? Focus on life for the court from the POV of a dancer in the 1600s. Monaboyd centered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Shirasade: this story was originally archived at the [Monaboyd.net Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Monaboyd.net), which was closed in September 2014 due to software issues and a lack of new submissions for several years. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2014. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Monaboyd.net Archive collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Monaboyd_Archive/profile).

If Dominic had one complaint about his station in life, it would be that it afforded far too many opportunities for boredom. _Chaque jour_ , he’d find himself playing the role of a mindless drone, falling into the same monotonous set of tasks-- that is, until one February morning.

“Wake up, Dominic. Your friend is dead.”

That was how His Highness had informed him of the death of Phillip, his dear friend and dance partner, his voice as warm as the frost forming on the glass window in his chamber. He then drew on a fine robe, his chocolate curls flat and mussed from their night of lovemaking. Clad in silken slippers, he walked brusquely into the antechamber to pour himself a glass of wine.

“Get dressed,” he commanded impatiently, slapping his hands against his thighs. “You’ll need to inform his family.”

Dominic slid down from the massive bed, sleep-numb arms pulling on his shirt.

“How did you find out?”

“A servant told me this morn -- she was looking for you.”

“Who?”

“Dominic, you know I don’t know their names--“

“Orlando--“

“Do not call me that.”

The temperature dropped. Dominic had overstepped his bounds, yet again. He braced himself for the inevitable reprimand, but to his surprise, the young prince merely sighed.

“You are tired, and grief stricken. This calls for certain allowances. Go now.”

He need not state the obvious, that he would call upon Dominic as he saw fit.

*

“Dear God, save us.”

Mme Claire fell to her knees, brown muslin getting soaked and soiled in the half-frozen mud, bony fingers pressed against her pale lips. Dominic set his jaw, his head tipped back proudly.

 _God_ , he thought, _cares naught for the fate of the likes of us_. If he did, he would not have taken a man so pure and beautiful. Dear Phillip, with his sunshine hair and easy smile, who could move like tall grass swinging in the summer breeze, and seemed to fit Dominic’s body like a glove when they danced. He shifted from one leg to the other, the image of the pale gaunt body he’d just seen flashing before his eyes.

It was a sick, senseless disease that took him.

“We-we have no money for his burial, we had no idea he was ill! He’d not written since Christmas…”

That would be because Phillip had been in bed since Christmas. He’d not been able to hold a pen since last summer, much less form a coherent sentence. Dominic had written the letter, full of false hope and promises. He knew then, perhaps, that Phillip wouldn’t live to see another holiday.

“This can be arranged, Madam. He was paid for his services by the king. He was my friend, I will see to the arrangements.”

Mme Claire looked up, gaunt face tear-streaked, and pulled his hand to her thin, cold lips, daring to kiss it quickly.

“Bless you, Dominic.”

He drew his hand away, stalking back to the chateau.

*

Phillip’s burial came three days later, on a wet, cold morning. He was lowered into the ground in a bare, closed casket, his face too horrid to been exposed to his family and scant few friends that had come out to see him buried. Dominic stepped to the edge of the plot, tossing a single calla lily onto the pale wood, and then blinked back tears as he turned his palm to the ground, pouring his fist full of dirt into the casket. The others joined him, but he backed away, dirt crammed under his fingernails.

He stepped back, face pale and taut, until he found himself in the shelter of the trees, his throat so tight he could hardly breathe. He watched, blinking back tears, as Phillip’s mother crouched in front of the plot, sobbing freely, her children pulling her up from the icy ground. He turned around, pressed against the trunk of tree, breathing heavily.

How long he stood there, numb and cold below the boughs of the forest, he wasn’t sure, but when he finally returned to the castle, the sun was setting over the massive lake, the watery colors of the sun and forest-- green, orange, and pale yellow, mixing together into black water like a miserable painting.

He hurried, coughing softly, and wiped his nose.

He would be punished, and in his fit of grief had lost a day of practicing. His majesty would not be amused.

The chateau loomed before him, glowing orange and warm, and as he slid into the side entrance, he frowned. The small blacksmith’s house was dark, and devoid of the usual plume of smoke that was oft seen billowing up into the heavens.

Where had the blacksmith and his apprentice gone?

He strode into the salon, smoothing his hair back, wincing as he realized his hands were still filthy, and he smelled of rainwater and wet bark.

Inside, Orlando sat patiently on a pale yellow sofa, his lean, stocking-covered legs, crossed casually. He regarded Dominic lazily, a rare smile on his lips, and said nothing as the man sat in the chair at his right hand. Orlando gestured to his left, and Dominic looked up, noticing for the first time, that the two were not alone.

To Orlando’s left, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, sat the blacksmith’s apprentice.

“I think, Dominic, that I have found you a replacement for Phillip.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late 1600s France. Billy in tights. Any questions? Focus on life for the court from the POV of a dancer in the 1600s. Monaboyd centered.

  
_“Of course, despite this generous reprieve from the smithy, you would still be expected to fulfill your duties as a blacksmith whenever time allowed.”_

The hammer struck the glowing metal with a resounding clang against the anvil, and William grimaced at the rainbow of sparks that flew, some landing on—and stinging—his ginger-colored forearms.

_Generous offer indeed._

He threw the hammer down again, blinking past soot-laden beads of sweat, and exhaled through his lips.

_“For three hours a day—at dawn—you are to meet with Dominic and work on your technique until you are suitable.”_

The sparks landed again on his arms and he cursed softly in his native tongue—something he’d never dare to do in the presence of his master. Speaking the language threatened the French, he’d said, and William was in no position to raise any sort of suspicions. He was, after all, a stranger.

_In a strange land._

_“He will never be suitable,” Dominic scoffed, shifting in the chair, which was downright hideous in William’s mind._

_“Oh?” William challenged, and then recoiled at the withering look his master had given him._

_Foreigners. They were foreigners, and not to challenge the establishment._

_He mumbled his apology for speaking out of turn._

_“M’ sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect.”_

_“Then you failed,” Dominic snapped._

_His Majesty held up a hand—a silent command for Dominic to be silent._

_“What he means, William, is that Phillip was a grave loss to him, both personally and artistically.”_

_“It would take me years to train you enough to be where Phillip was. Furthermore, Phillip had been training since he was old enough to apprentice. Since he was ten years old, he’d been by my side, immersed into the art. And you? To begin now? How old are you?”_

__

 

_William faltered._

_“Twenty-six.”_

_Dominic threw his hands up, and rose from the chair angrily._

The metal sang as William pounded it anew, squinting.

Doomed. This endeavor was doomed from the start.

William bore no desire to be in the dance studio—a hall of eerie golden mirrors and perfumed candles—and Dominic had no desire to have him there.

The sword connected with the water, hissing.

But his master had wanted him there, he had thought the invitation by the prince was a high honor, and for him, he’d oblige the prince.

He’d show this Dominic just what he could do, in spite of the late start.

He only hoped his ambition wasn’t a foolish one.

He smirked, placing his handiwork on the rack to cool.

No more foolish than any other… _impulses_ he had.

Such as his unhealthy interest in the shape of Dominic’s calves in pale leggings.

*

Foolishness.

His Majesty had simply lost his wits, perhaps had taken some wine that was spoilt and in his hysteria had grown deluded enough to believe that William was a suitable replacement for his Phillip.

Dominic sighed heavily, his lungs already complaining against the exertion from the warm up, and lifted his leg up to the bar, stretching past the stiff ache.

The worry of Phillip had pressed his nerves—he was out of practice.

He’d never go more than a day without dancing again.

Dominic brought his leg down and rose onto his toes, his long, lean arms high in a graceful _port de bras_.  
The rich notes from the piano forte rung clear in his beloved studio and he fell back down, light as a feather, moving into his routine.

He moved thoughtlessly, strong legs spinning him into a tight _chaine_ as he closed his eyes for a moment to block the view of the piano forte and the golden room spinning.

To make matters worse, William seemed thoroughly disinterested in the prince’s offer and had the gall to believe Dominic could not see that the only reason he had agreed to train was to please the old man—his master, though master no more.

When William was outside the smithy, he would be Dominic’s, and Dominic would see to it that the first thing the man learned was proper etiquette.

He had dared to challenge the professional assessment Dominic had made of his potential, in front of the prince, no less!

His inner thighs yelped and burned and he threw himself into a sweeping _grand jeté_.

Up and over he moved, scaling the distance of the room.

The truth was, in spite of the damning breach of custom with regards to the age in which William would begin training, Dominic held a small grain of hope that the man could indeed be a noble entry to Dominic’s troupe. Unlike Orlando, he was reluctant to believe the man could ever serve as a principal dancer—at best he could perhaps take on the role of a woman on stage.

Yet he did indeed possess the grace, the power to do _something_ in Dominic’s troupe.

Dominic saw him move in the practice ranges, gracefully dancing with the silvery sword as he would spar with another. Dominic could recall how the man’s lean, compact legs would tense and then spring nimbly as William shifted out of range for an attack, and he saw the potential for balance, as William would sometimes climb atop stone walls for sport, and hold his sword in a bizarre display of his skills with the blade.

The warm, sticky air of the studio pressed against Dominic’s face as he licked his lips and stretched his arms further out, as if he was embracing a ghost of a lover.

Dominic thought of how the man’s collar had been undone, and the buttery sunshine that dripped down on the grounds had warmed his tawny skin. The few freckles that sprinkled across his heart-shaped face glistened from the sheen of sweat.

In truth, the man was beautiful.

Dominic sucked in his breath suddenly, and stifled a wince as his bare feet landed onto the warm floor with a loud and unsettled flap.

He frowned.

He’d lost his concentration.

“Thank you, Elijah. I believe that will be all for today.”

“Leaving so soon?” The young man’s cool eyes narrowed with concern.

“I am. I feel I need to take a rest. A bit of fresh air would do me well.”

The man smirked, already gathering his music and joining Dominic at the door.

“Fresh air? Or a change of scenery?”

Dominic lowered his eyelashes, and clapped the small man on the back.

“I fear you know too many of my secrets. Keep this up and I shall have to dispose of you, my friend.”

“Dispose of a Medici? Surely you jest.”

Dominic laughed.

“You speak as if your absence would not go unnoticed. Surely a family whose offspring have spanned the entire continent would not notice one missing lad.”

Elijah’s face fell. Dominic immediately regretted his jest.

“Surely they would, Dominic. They certainly would.”

*

Dominic sped across the grounds, still damp from his exercise, and swiped at his bangs, pushing them back. The Price always complained when Dominic would shove his long dark bangs back, complaining that the man looked untidy when he did so, not at all distinguished or civilized.

This of course drove Dominic to rake his fingers through the strands whenever possible, for no other reason than to keep one piece of his body to himself, even if the effort was in private and an inconsequential gesture.

Without much effort, he arrived upon the doorstep of the tiny smithy, tucked in among a few tall trees on the outskirts of the side entry to the palace. To Dominic the abode always seemed very picturesque and neat, though trips to the workhouse had proven the space to be cluttered, covered in soot, and dank.

If it weren’t for the contents of the establishment, Dominic would wonder why so many staff members always volunteered to visit the smithy.

Dominic entered without knocking as William’s master had long before chided him for the demonstration of such manners with someone so beneath his station.

The door swung open and Dominic paused, slightly in awe of what he saw.

The art of metalwork was, in Dominic’s opinion, a beautiful sight to behold.

The fire and steam from the water and metal as the two opposing elements met were like thunder ripping across the sky. The union was like an intense coupling in Dominic’s mind, full of passion, sparks, and the calm moments after were rather like the cooling of bodies after passionate lovemaking.

Such a coupling Dominic had never experienced.

Indeed, he was lucky if his affairs were consensual.

William wiped sweat from his sooty brow and exhaled as he pounded his anvil, seemingly lost in concentration.

Yes, Dominic mused, as he took in the sight of the man’s muscles, biceps rippling but not faltering, holding the heavy instrument with a practiced ease.

William would do well in Dominic’s troupe. Already he had the strength.

Dominic waited patiently, until William finally looked up over his filthy eyebrows but did not pay him the courtesy of a proper greeting.

Sweat dribbled down onto the man’s cupid’s bow lips, and he spat onto the dirt, flicking the soot and sweat mixture from his brow.

The etiquette would definitely be a point of improvement.

“William,” Dominic began, finding himself cross at having to be the one to initiate the conversation.

William pounded the anvil, never taking his eyes off his handiwork.

“I wish to speak with you.”

The hammer connected with the sword, and Dominic flinched. His ears rang.

“So speak.”

“Such insolence won’t be tolerated, William. I come here to aid you, the least you might do is look at me.”

“I am your charge only when in that studio. In here, I am my own man, Dominic, and you would do well to remember that.”

Dominic’s hands balled into fists, and he debated leaving.

“Besides,” William added, turning the white-hot blade over. “I cannot look at you while I do this, I must keep my eye on the blade at all times. One slip, one distraction, and it is ruined, days of labor wasted.”

Dominic wondered if he was perhaps dreaming—William almost sounded apologetic.

“I came to inform you that I am free for your first lesson on the morrow, should you desire.”

William tore his eyes from his blade for the barest of moments.

“That is three days before we are scheduled to begin.”

“It is. It occurred to me that perhaps you might want a bit of practice in addition to the troupe’s regular meetings, as you will need it.”

William bristled and tossed his hammer onto the bricks near the hearth, thrusting the blade into the water irritably.

“However, if you feel you cannot make it—”

“I will be there. Name the time.”

Dominic faltered. He knew when he wanted, but wondered if the man would allow it.

“I think you and I should meet after dinner, so that much of the day is free for you to finish your duties.”

William nodded and pulled his blade from the steaming water.

“After dinner, then. I will be at your studio. Will one half hour after supper be acceptable?”

Dominic nodded, fighting the twinge in his belly.

“Then I shall see you tomorrow night.”

Dominic spun on his heels, his hands hovering a breath away from his belly, his mind racing.

He would spend the rest of the day arranging for the man’s arrival and denying, vehemently, that he was excited.


	3. Angels Will Run and Hide Their Wings by starlikeshadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late 1600s France. Billy in tights. Any questions? Focus on life for the court from the POV of a dancer in the 1600s. Monaboyd centered.

Dusk fell across the winter countryside like a blanket, the bitter wind shooing the servants in, and rendering Dominic eternally grateful to be snug in the confines of the warm palace, rather than doomed to tend to the horses, or any other duty that required braving the outdoors.

Dinner was dragging by slowly, the conversation thick as wax and just as interesting. His highness was drawling on about his next hunting trip (though it was some two months away), eagerly singing the praises of the preliminary handiwork William the sword smith had produced. His mind wandered over to William’s smithy, wondering how he fared in his hut, amidst hot coals, steam and fire, but his thoughts didn’t linger there, as he had more pertinent affairs to tend to.

Such as preparing himself for William’s first lesson.

He’d given much thought to it, reminding himself of his school days at the Academie Nationale de Musique et de Danse in Paris, when Orlando had commanded he leave him to be trained in the ways of movement and grace. At the age of eight, the decision had been deemed a punishment, to be sent away from friends, and the comfort of being Orlando’s favorite into the clutches of a stern faced teacher and other lads who came from better breeding and took great joy in reminding him that with his lineage, he held no significance in the world.

He took great pride in proving them all wrong, and rising to the top of his class.

It was there he’d met Phillip, and the two bonded, coming from a grain of mutual base beginnings. A trophy plaything from one of Orlando’s Medici cousins, he too had been sent to study the ways of grace and movement; to refine the roots of the dance, roots from simple villages in the countryside. The lads were to emerge able to display a perfect balance of acrobatics, folk dance and the “inherent” grace of the aristocracy. Phillip had not the fire Dominic had, but he was quietly beautiful, and the two moved as smooth as ripples of water on a lake.

Dominic mused he’d never stop missing him.

However, tonight he’d not be confined to his grief, as William would be sure to devour his wits and patience within hours.

Christ, but the man was an _emmerdeur_ when he wanted to be.

He was glad to have the excuse of training him too, as this afforded Orlando to grant him permission to be relieved of the droning dinner speech early, _I see your mind wanders, go and prepare for your pupil_ , to pop off bundled up out into the elements on the short walk to his studio. It had been a gift from Orlando-most elaborate gift, far too much for a man of his class, but Orlando would hear nothing of it, assuring him the studio served to benefit him just as much as it would Dominic.

The King was a man of style and results, and Orlando believed ballet would be the art form of the new millennia. He personally saw to it that this art would be well represented here in his house, and in turn, his father might look upon him with more than bored disappointment.

Rain had fallen late the night before, and then froze, and Dominic made sure to mind his footing as his thin shoes offered little traction as he stepped into the small building. Elijah must have been in earlier, as the mirrored main room was aglow with gentle candle light, each flicker picking up the golden flecks bordering each mirror and casting a heavenly shine upon everything. In the corner near the clavecin, a blazing fire was crackling happily, a few logs of sweet scented wood making the air thick and sweet. Dom inhaled happily, and headed into the back room to change.

Moments later, he emerged, clad in the form fitting hose and loose tunic that was popular among dancers in Paris, his well-worn shoes scuffing the wood floors. He raked his hair back, shoving the hair past his eyes, and deliberated tying the locks into a snug ponytail. Later. Perhaps after he was warmed up.

His palms dug into the smooth wood of the balance beam, as he began his warm up routine, his arms flowing effortlessly into the positions. He remembered doing this as a boy, when he was bouncing with energy and terrified, his master coming behind him to silently correct his lax posture or curved spine. Countless hours he spent working to improve his form, until tears would sting his eyes and his teacher would relent and relieve, sending him home for rest.

He would limp to his quarters, choking around his exhaustion, and wondering when any of his efforts would get better. When he would be stronger…

He feared he never would.

Muscles now humming and hot, he frowned turning to glare at the door as if it was somehow responsible for William’s tardiness. That would be the first lesson Dominic taught him: the importance of being prompt. He’d do well to remember that, especially once the autumn show was underway, and his tardiness would hold up some 20 other dancers that would be visiting from Paris.

Having no sight of William’s arrival at hand, Dominic opted to move around a bit, smoothing a rough patch of the routine he was devising for the show. The mode was to keep the entire program simple, thus, it was oft most storylines evolved around the movement of a particular animal, or should the plot become advanced, detail a simple story, such as the hunter and the prey, or two lovers.

Dominic had found himself enraptured with the flight of Angels, lately, thus he’d dared to replicate steps that would take the men high in the air, full of vaulting jumps and dream-like movement. Knowing the Church would be displeased with dance daring to highlight celestial bodies Dominic had named his show after the flight of birds, pleased to be a swan so long as in his heart he was a glittering angel. Perhaps he could be Gabriel, with his fiery sword and flaming golden hair: terrible, fierce, and divine.

When his feet landed onto the ground with a light thud, he felt a sharp shift in the air, and when he swirled around, he was facing William, looking a touch sheepish and covered from brow to ankle in a layer of grime.

“You’re late.” He sniffed, irrationally embarrassed to have the man see him dance without his knowing.

“I apologize.” William seemed genuine. “Cook called me into the kitchens; they’d a problem with the stove-well it doesn’t matter. I had to see to it the house was fed, didn’t I?”

He smiled good-naturedly, which only served to make Dominic feel worse.  
While his head was in the clouds, berating William for his tardy habits, William had been working, and ensuring his comfort.

He swallowed around his self-loathing. “Have you…did you get to sup?”

“Aye. I’d eaten before I’d been called in, actually. I was preparing for a bath, when Cook called.”

Dominic sighed. “Good. If you’d like to post pone…”

“No!” William remarked. “I’ll clean off me arms if you like, but I’d rather do this.”

Dominic nodded. “There is a wash basin in the back room, as well as spare clothing. Take your time.”

Billy stepped passed him, the lines of his neck shimmering with sweat in the candlelight, and as was the status quo, Dominic felt a hot pool in his belly. Brutally, he thought of what the man’s body would look like, slick with soap and flushed from the steaming water, but that thought was tamped down viciously. This was his pupil.

William returned some moments later, face and exposed skin scrubbed, the hose clinging to his skin shamefully. Each inch of him was snugly held together by the dark fabric, the curve of his bottom flaring to the solid definition of the back of his thighs, and the subtle taper of his ankles.

For a peasant he was in stunning shape, broad forearms littered with ginger hair, and his shoulders and chest broad and healthy. He would do well in ballet, perhaps as a lifter, once Dominic proved his balance and strength.

But first, first he’d have to ensure he was steady on his feet.

“Stand next to the bar,” Dominic commanded softly, as he extinguished a few candles along the opposite walls, and stoked the fire. Though he knew they’d soon be damp with perspiration, he also knew well how the cold could pierce the small chinks in the foundation, blasting their skin with cruel cold shock.

William obeyed wordlessly albeit cautiously, resting both palms against the bar, as he seemed to study his own face in the mirror. Dominic knew that among the servants, mirrors were rare and indeed a single mirror of this size would cost the equivalent of some of their yearly salaries. It was one of many luxuries Dominic oft took for granted, he’d long gotten bored with the sight of his own face, and when he danced rarely was interested in the sight, save to critique flaws in his form.

Apparently, the novelty had not worn off for William. He watched for half a moment as the Billy grazed his callused fingers across his lips, the line of his pointed nose, and the gentle bow of the flesh above his upper lip. He even touched his brow, smoothing his ginger eyebrows, before touching the crease in his eyelid, and then letting the hands fall to his side. Dominic wondered, bemused, if William admired what he saw; he was indeed a handsome man.

“ _La première leçon sera dans le placement de vos pieds, William._ ”

William started, looking down at the floor guiltily, before focusing.

Dominic was speaking French, a language William understood well enough, but as it wasn’t his native tongue, he still struggled at times to both understand and speak it. The natives found it endearing, his habit of wrapping his burr around the multiple syllables with a touch of frustration, only careful to hide his disdain when speaking with the Prince.

“Your back must remain straight and strong, your legs unmovable unless I want them to be, and your feet must strive to be stronger. Your instep, the curve of the outside of your foot is most important in ballet, and it will take you years to mold it.”

William nodded, pliant as Dominic loomed behind him, molding his body into first position.

“Unfortunately we don’t have years so I must make do with months.” He smiled wryly, as he folded William’s arms into the first position as well. “Now, you must hold your body like this, until your muscles no longer complain and your feet as so grounded I cannot push you.”

William looked up then, the whites of his eyes flashing with a flicker. Dominic leaned in closer, hands gently moving to settle on William’s lower back, correcting the curve.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured softly, transfixed on the lines of William’s legs, and the placement of his feet. “I won’t ask too much of you this first lesson.”

And he kept his promise, though he did indeed test William and soon their almost companionable rapport turned sour. For what Dominic was sure felt like hours, he watched William, softly but firmly commanding William to straighten up, sometimes, changing his body’s placement, and then naming the new position.

Throughout it all, somehow, William endured.

Nevertheless, he was getting weary.

His face was slick with sweat, and he began to stiffen at Dominic’s sharp corrections, until Dominic imagined he started to take the lesson personally.

He could imagine thus, as he’d felt the same many years before.

“No, no, William. You must keep your arms fluid, delicate like a wisp of smoke.” He motioned his arms as he spoke, making a point to not pull a face as he compared the movement to smoke. His own teacher had done the same twelve years before.

“I am,” Billy growled, parroting Dominic’s movement, though his muscles flexed stiffly.

“You’re not.” Dominic replied, and when he looked up, he saw unchecked irritation in Billy’s eyes. He tamped down his own flare of anger, _insufferable ingrate_ , and stepped back from behind Billy, and let out a sigh. “You’re fatigued, and you need rest, William. We can return tomorrow.”

“I am well.” Billy insisted.

Anger welled. He was so damned stubborn. “You are not, and I’ll not have you here overworked, as you’ll make more mistakes and waste my time. I could be practicing myself, I’ll remind you.”

Billy’s jaw clenched. “I said I was well.”

Dominic slid back into the space behind William glaring into their reflections in the mirror. “Are you?” He knew his breath hit the back of William’s neck. Viciously, he clamped two fingers onto the sore flesh of the underside of William’s bicep, and the man tensed. “This smarts, yes?”

William’s eyes darkened. “You’ll need to rest them, build up their strength, because if I have to correct you one more time…,” his own voice grew steely. “Now, go now, William. Get rest. We’ll reconvene on the morrow.”

He walked away, finding a cloth to wipe his sweat, and went into the spare room in search of the cantor of wine. He knew the spirits would help ease his aches when he slept-if he got any rest tonight. Should Orlando call him to his bed the wine would help then too, for it had been many years since Orlando had bothered with a tender touch when he called.

When he emerged, William was still by the bar, his back now to the mirror, as he held his arms up stubbornly. Dominic felt the heat flare again.

He was in his space in an instant.

“Another lesson you would do well to remember, William is when to rest, and when to learn your limitations.” Shocked by the brazen defiance William sent at him, he felt his fists curl. “And when to obey the command of your teacher. You’ve done well, now go.”

Their exchange was interrupted by a servant bearing the telltale slip of paper with the simple request made whenever he and Orlando shared each other’s company: _Come_.

“M’lord is excitable.” Maurice muttered lowly to Dominic with a wink, and spun on his heels to exit.

All the while William watched, and when Dominic looked up at him, he felt his own cheeks flush with heat to his irritation. Why should he feel embarrassed? It was none of William’s concern.

“Go,” he growled“, I’ve…”

“Places to be?” William drawled. “A private audience to attend?”

Shame crept red up Dominic’s neck.

“I don’t recall my affairs being any of your concern William.”

“They aren’t.” He replied smoothly. “I’m just concerned. I do hope the price he pays is worthy of your station at least.” Seemingly giving up on his defiant stance, he slipped out of position and paused before Dominic.

He had seen that look in many eyes before. It was one he had no answer for. _You could do better_. A familiar choke of shame and some unnamed squirming feeling overtook him. “When I ask for your opinion, I’ll inform you.”

“I’m giving it anyway.”

Dominic’s hand connected with William’s cheek lightly, just enough to sting.

“Insolence! I recall asking for your obedience while in here, and I will have it. Enough of this discussion, enough of this _pride_ , get thyself to your quarters and rest. I expect a clearer mind tomorrow.”

William’s hand latched onto his wrist hard. “I could…” His eyes flitted over to the mirror. Dominic smirked. The Prince would murder him should harm befall Dominic, or the golden row of glass. “You’ll not put hands on me while in the room, charge or no, understand?”

Dominic opened his mouth for a retort, but then William was a stream of motion, storming out the room with a loud slam of the door, and when his footsteps faded Dominic let his shoulders slump.

“Well,” he announced to the empty room. “I believe that went quite well.”


End file.
